Head Over Heels
by SunnyD545
Summary: (Continuation of Jumping Feet First!) He's standing in a stream of conciseness. He can't tell what's real and what's all in his head anymore. The demon is there, just in the corner of his eye. He's haunted, broken, and lost. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The demon is inside his head. How can he help Maka, if he can't even help himself? (AU. I don't own Soul Eater).
1. Him: 1

**Please note this is a Continuation of Jumping Feet First. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THAT STORY, YOU WILL BE SO SO CONFUSED. You can find the first part in my profile (if you can believe it), so please go check it out. I'm happy to accept any positive feedback, including constructive criticism, but I ask for respect. **

**Thank you for your patience everyone, and for supporting me from the start!**

* * *

 **Him 1:**

It's hard to know what's real sometimes. For example, the arm chair he's sitting in feels very real. The leather is plush and firm, like no one has ever sat in it before; it's comfortable and not at the same time. When Soul runs his hands over the armrests, the cloth dents appropriately, and reshapes correctly; the light bounces back off the surface as if it can't even touch such a fine material. A strong sent coming from it, as if just polished and primped from the store. It feels so real. A smooth, rich, dark leather arm chair. It feels so very real. Soul wants to believe it's real.

There is demon standing in the corner of the living room. The creature is staring at Soul with perfectly round eyes. It doesn't blink. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't seem to move at all.

The arm chair has to be real. He can feel it, touch it, see it, smell it. Soul has half a mind to take a bite, just so he can have more proof. He's so keenly aware of this arm chair. The leather arm chair has to be real.

This is real, Soul thinks. He's sitting in his chair in his apartment right now. This is the real world.

This is the real world. He is awake. There is no demon. He is awake in the real world right now.

 _"So adamant," the Little Ogre chuckles._

He is awake. Ignore the jazz. Soul is awake. This is the real world. Besides, jazz isn't an impossible thing; Soul owns so many records and plays them often enough on his old record machine. He owns one of those; it is wedged in a back corner of the living room of his apartment. In the real world. Which is where he is.

 _"Don't hurt yourself boy," the Little Ogre teases._

The demon is now by the floor lamp, only a few feet away. It keeps staring at Soul, pupils black and dilated. The grin on its face is wide and sharp, as if mocking him. Each tooth is like a bleached triangle, fitting within the other teeth with no room for gaps, creating a jagged crease within the confine of red lips.

Soul closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He drags both hands through his white hair. He tries to focus. There are no black curtains. There are no warped floors. There is no Little Ogre dressed in a suit.

There is only Soul, sitting in his leather arm chair in his apartment.

This is the real world.

"Breathe," Soul says. Or maybe he doesn't.

No. He did say that. This is the real world and he just told himself to breathe and relax because he can do that in his leather arm chair. In his apartment. In the real world.

This is the real world. This is real.

 _I am real._

 _"What defines reality? Is there any way to truly know what is perceived as 'real?' There is no way to be sure of anything," the Little Ogre prods._

Soul touches the chair armrests with his hands again. He presses each finger into the leather, creating dents in the once smooth surface. The cloth resists him, as it is firm and well-made material. The light bends appropriately to the new shapes his fingers make. He pulls his left hand back towards his face, and can smell the fresh clean scent now rubbed into his own skin. The arm chair has to be real.

Soul stares at his left hand, still pressed into the armrests. He bends his fingers just enough to get the tips of his fingernails into contact. Soul presses harder. He puts far more power into the motion in an attempt to dent the material. He wants to leave a mark. He wants to damage it because that will prove the chair is real.

He holds the pressure a minute longer than what would be normal. He hesitates on the lift, only to press his hand and nails back in again for another moment. His fingers tense, relax, and then tense again back into the leather.

This is the real world. The arm chair is real. Soul is real.

Soul isn't sure if he's blinking right now.

A red hand covers his tense left. The hand is large and distorted compared to the arm it is attached to, with sharp black nails. They scrape over Soul's skin. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but he can still feel the drag of not-quite-claws over the back of his hand. He feels the same sensation on his right hand: sharp and undeniable.

But, that can't be true. There is no demon. There can't be a demon.

 _"All this denial is starting to hurt my feelings. If I didn't know any better, I would think you don't like me, Soul 'Eater' Evans," the Little Ogre taunts._

The voice comes from directly in front of him, which is impossible. There is no way a demon is standing on his coffee table. Things like that don't happen in the real world. Soul stares another moment at the large red hand covering his own. Then, slowly, he drags his eyes up the arm covered in a black sleeve that is far too long, and catch the wide red head of the demon. The head is at least twice the size of Soul's own.

It's staring at him. The eyes are disproportional to its head, filling the entire top half of its face. The other half is covered by that sharp and sinister grin that seems to be a permanent feature. The body is thin and small; it doesn't seem like it would be able to support such a large head. The legs are so short too; they are miniscule compared to the length of its arms. Everything about the demon is off.

Soul shakes his head. It breaks his stare with the demon in front of him, but he can still aware those large black pupils on him. He can sense the wide grin. He can feel the weight of the hands holding down his own. He doesn't want to. He can't stand it.

 _"What's wrong, Evans? How can you deny what's right in front of you? Are you so eager to hide and cower? What a pathetic man you are," the Little Ogre growls._

"No," Soul denies. His voice is inaudible though. He feels sick and weak. He wants to yank his hands out and away, but he can't. His muscles are frozen.

 _"Always running away. You can't take the heat. Can't stand the judgement. You're a weak man, Evans. So weak and useless; no one can depend on you. You can't even depend on yourself. You are worthless," the Little Ogre continues._

Soul does manage to move a little, but he just sinks deeper into the chair. His shoulders are bunched near his ears. His eyes squeeze shut. His teeth clench as if in physical pain.

 _"Stop trying to pretend. It doesn't matter what is real and what is not. It's never mattered. Because I know the truth; you can lie to everyone, but you can't fool me. You can't fool yourself. Forget reality. Give it up. You can't believe it makes a difference. If you actually cared about reality, you would still be on the northeast coast. You would still be living in your family estate. You would still be attempting to play the piano and being a worthless, watered-down version of your older brother," the Little Ogre sneers._

Two pairs of teeth are on display. One set is wide and mocking, the other is surrounded by trembling lips. Burgundy eyes whip back and forth, looking everywhere but at the face in front of them. Black pupils, as wide as tennis balls, stare straight at the cowering being in front of them.

 _"If you cared about 'reality,' you would be facing it," the Little Ogre assures._

Soul flinches further into the arm chair. He can't speak. He can't be sure if he can breathe, and he's too scared to try.

 _"But you can't, can you? So pathetic. So worthless. So inadequate," the Little Ogre rambles._

Soul's eyes catch the demon's own. He's trapped.

 _"You're nothing like your brother. He's a musical prodigy, a born gentleman, and liked by all who meet him. He's practically perfect. The pride of Evan's estate," the Little Ogre states._

Soul gulps.

 _"And then there's you: socially inept, dark, and brooding. Your personal tastes alone leave much to be desired. Ah, and don't get me started on your actual musical abilities. Someone like you could never compare to someone like Wes; I'm amazed you even share the same name, Evans," the Little Ogre scorns._

Soul's breath starts again, rough and broken. He resists crying, but it's hard. It's so hard because everything that demon is saying is true. It's so true. It's painfully true, and Soul knows that this has to be reality because reality is cruel and unforgiving.

This is real. It is real because Soul is miserable.

There is the sound of something slamming just beyond his eye sight. Soul jumps, breath catching in his throat as he turns his head to see what the noise was. He can't, of course, but when Soul turns to face forward again there is no demon on the coffee table. He blinks, only then realizing he's in a knit-cloth covered recliner, worn and old. He's never owned a leather arm chair.

"Soul," a feminine voice calls, originating from the kitchen out of sight. "Are you here? I brought dinner."

Soul gulps air, trying to calm down. He can feel the sweat on the back of his neck cool. His eyes dart around the small living room, taking note of the blinds and carpet and clear light sources. There is no demon in sight. His body is too weary to relax. He forces it to anyway with more gulps of air.

"Soul?" The voice repeats. There is the muffled sound of plastic and cabinets opening to only close seconds later.

"Yeah," Soul replies with a nonchalance he is nowhere close to feeling. "In here." He shifts in the recliner, his legs and shoulders still stiff. He tries to wiggle his body to hide away the stiffness.

"You do realize that I don't know where 'here' is, right?" The other replies, but in less than a minute, Maka enters the living room. She plops down on the couch cushion closest to Soul and begins the process of removing her combat boots. "You could be in your room, the bathroom, the closet…"

"Why would I be in the closet?"

Maka shrugs. "Because you're not ready to come out yet?"

"Really Maka? A gay joke?" He huffs and rolls his eyes.

Maka sends Soul a look, her eyes scrunched down and lips down turned just a bit. "I would never joke about something like that. If you want to have the bromance of a life-time with Black*Star, I won't judge." She pauses to look upward a moment, finger tapping her chin in thought. "Well, I would, but not aloud or to either of your faces," she amends.

"For your information," Soul starts, "a bromance, by definition, is not like a regular romance. It's between two bros, who are the best of friends. The bros are not gay for each other; they just support each other on a level beyond friendship."

"Doesn't mean that they aren't gay at all. Or that it can't turn into a romance. And the way you and Black*Star where hugging each other and weeping on campus the other day…"

Soul shifts forward in his chair. "Okay, you clearly do not understand how bros operate."

She shoots him the most unimpressed look he's ever seen in his life. "Right. That's the issue here." She then stands with her boots in her hands and walks back towards the apartment door.

"Also," Soul adds, because he feels like he's losing this argument. "There's no point in removing your shoes if you've walked in the main rooms of the apartment. The dirt's already in my carpet, Pigtails."

"Put a chair by the door and I won't have to do it in the living room," Maka calls back.

"Stop wearing complex shoes and you won't need to sit down," Soul insists.

Maka's laugh makes its way back to Soul, but he can tell she's in the kitchen again. "Those things are steel toed and steel heeled. They kick ass, and you know it. My boots are a part of the package, Soul. If you want to hang out with me, the boots come with."

There are worst combo packages in the world, Soul thinks. He has no real qualms with the status quo of Maka's ritual shoe removal. The fact she takes the time to remove them and put them back on properly each time is kind of endearing. Soul's never taken care of any of his shoes like that. He'd chalk it up to the stereotype of girls and shoes, but since when has Maka fit a stereotype? No, she's right, those boots kick ass. Combine that with her favorite plaid pleated skirt, and her legs just seem to go on for days.

But that's beside the point.

Maka comes back to the living room with two plates in her hands. She sets one on the coffee table, just within Soul's reach. The other she keeps with her as she sits back on the couch again, this time tucking her sock-covered feet under her.

"Cheese-burger deluxe," Maka informs him with a nod.

Soul grins at the food. "Thanks."

They munch in silence for a few minutes. Soul tries not to think about anything he was doing before this moment where the grease is sticking between his fingers. He attempts to think about the cheese and meat and how Maka remembered his distaste for pickles. She always remembers. He reaches out for fries, stuffing the crispy potato straws three at a time into his mouth. He just focuses on his meal. That's all he needs to focus on.

He's focusing so hard, he's surprised to notice Maka is staring at him. Her own meal is a pile of chicken nuggets and fries with ketchup drizzled all over them like ranch dressing on a fatty salad. He's not sure how much she's eaten so far, but she seems more interested in looking at him than eating right now. Soul responds to the focus of those vibrant emerald eyes by squirming in his worn recliner. He stuffs another fry in his mouth before frowning. He thinks to call out her stare, but is scared of what she might be noticing.

Instead, Soul opts out, like the coward he is. "No drink?"

Maka watches him a little more, her head now tilted in consideration. "They're in the kitchen," she admits after a heavy beat of silence.

Soul hums in confirmation, stands, and brushes the grease and salt off his hands and onto his baggy sweats. "I'll get 'em then," he mumbles before waddling his way to the small kitchen in his apartment. On the tiny counter space, he spots two paper cups with plastic lids. One is a little bigger than the other, and seems to be filled with a dark liquid. The other has a lighter, golden liquid inside of the tall container. Soul picks both up, eyes searching the close area. "Where are the straws?"

"Huh?" Maka's voice is muffled from the wall between them.

"Straws?" Soul tries again, louder.

There is a pause. "Oh, um." Another pause. "I think I may have left them in the bag. Which is in the trash."

Soul glances at his trash bag. The trash is getting high, but still manageable three more days until Monday trash pick-up. "Do you care?"

"Soul," Maka's voice sounds from the living room. There is an edge in it, no matter how muffled. "If you dare bring me a straw from the trash I'll—"

"Lidless it is!"

Soul makes his way back to the living room. He sets both drinks down on the coffee table, then pops the plastic lids off. He picks up the larger one and gulps down a mouth full of syrup and fizz. It's still cold. The amount of ice is light too, just the way he likes his soda. Those fast food chains always put in way too much ice; the ratio of ice to soda makes Soul feel like he's being ripped off.

Soul sits back down, replacing his cup to grab up the other half of his burger still left on the plate. He takes a big bite that stuffs his cheeks. It's kind of hard to chew. He struggles the first few munches, but is able to keep going easier after that.

"Gross," Maka states. He looks at her to see her nose scrunched up. It's surprisingly cute, or unsurprisingly, as it's not the first time he's thought something like that.

Soul raises a brow, mouth still too full to reply with a verbal question.

She shakes her head before reaching for her cup. Maka swallows a few sips of her own drink, eyes watching him. Soul keeps his eyebrow raised and waits. She stops to state. "You are gross."

Soul forces the wad of chewed food down his throat. It's harder than he will admit. Once he has though, he responds with a grunt of "no I'm not."

"You so are."

He shoves a few fries in his mouth. "I'm cool," he states, this time not caring if he has some food in his mouth. His honor is much more important, at the moment.

She snorts.

"I am," Soul insists after swallowing. He tries to sound at least a little upset, but it's hard when Maka is smiling at him like that. "Anyway, how was class?"

She munches on a fry with ketchup a moment. She seems to be staring at a wall, but the gloss over those emerald eyes say otherwise. "Fine."

Then Soul remembers. "You had lab today."

Maka's focus returns to her ketchup salad of fried food. "Yep."

Soul wants to laugh and wince at the same time. "Well, it's not like you didn't know what you were getting into when you signed up for the class. You spent the whole summer under his advisement."

Maka groans, her head falling back to rest on the worn couch back cushion. Soul averts his eyes from her neck, stuffing his face with fries. He chews slowly. Maka doesn't move from her spot. Instead, she groans again, louder and with a whine in the tone.

"That bad?"

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. Her head doesn't move an inch from its defeated position. "It's only the third lab and he's already made over half the class drop. The third one, Soul," she gasps, arms flying up to the ceiling, only to fall limply back to the couch. "We only have lab once a week. The class and lab are a prerequisite, so a lot of people signed up, but…" She pauses to sit upright and take another sip of her drink. "Everyone who is left keep complaining that all the other labs are already full."

"What are you going to do?"

Maka shrugs, and there is a turn to the right corner of her lip. Her eyes focus back on him. "It's not a problem for me. The man is my godfather. I grew up used to it. I'm practically immune to his crazy." She munches on a fry. "Ah, well, mostly. The lab setting is a bit new."

Soul snorts into his own meal, but takes another bite of his greasy burger.

Maka's nose does that cute wrinkle-up thing again. "Gross," she reconfirms, but keeps going. "Anyway, it's more annoying than difficult at this point. All my classmates just keep whining and complaining about Stein behind his back. It's actually starting to piss me off. I know that they have no choice at this point, but seriously, they need to just—" She breaks off to groan again.

This time, Soul does laugh. "Not everyone has the advantage of years of immunity built up."

"Is that what we're calling this? An advantage?" She pops a ketchup stained chicken nugget in her mouth and chews quickly. "Well, either way, I'm starting to understand why Black*Star griped so much about faulty lab regulations. Stein doesn't follow any of them."

"Yeah, kinda sucks that he teaches the intro chemistry courses. I always thought they gave that to the assistant professors or something."

"They do," Maka assures. "Those classes are beneath most professors. Which is why they made Stein do it. It's supposed to be a punishment for his less-than-stomaching practices." She huffs a laugh, more air than noise. "Not that he's learning from this. If anything, he seems to be taking it as a can't-do-any-worse scenario."

Soul gives a laugh of his own. It's weak, but real enough. "Sounds like Professor Stein."

Maka shakes her head, but doesn't continue. That small tilt is back in the right corner of her lips. He doesn't know what else to add, so Soul just finishes his dinner. From the corner of his eye, he can see Maka do the same.

They wrap up a few minutes later, and both stand to take the trash to the kitchen. Maka throws her stuff away last. Once she has, she starts digging in the cabinets under Soul's sink. Soul watches from a spot just to the left of her. It's safer than standing behind her while she's in that skirt.

"What are you doing?" He tries. He doesn't mean to sound so tired or annoyed, because he isn't. Well, he isn't annoyed, at least. It feels like he's always tired. Soul can't remember the last time he got a decent few hours of sleep.

"Trash bag," Maka replies, standing up again with one in her hand. "The trash needs to be changed."

She starts to head towards his trashcan, but Soul moves to interfere. "You're kidding; stop it." She side-steps and he follows that move. "Seriously, Maka, don't. You don't live here; you shouldn't do my chores."

She huffs and frowns at Soul. "It's full, and you're going to wait until Monday to do anything."

Soul doesn't bother with denying it. "Just let me do it. You go pick out the movie."

Maka rolls her eyes. "Are you going to do it now?"

"Maybe," Soul replies. He snatches the flat trash bag from her hands. She doesn't resist, and he can't help feeling a little pleased with that fact. "Either way, you won't."

Maka huffs once, but grins at him anyway. "Fine. Fine." She turns to head back to the living room. Before she's out of sight though, she turns to point at him with a finger. "Change it, or else."

Soul rolls his eyes this time, "What are you, my mom?"

"As if I could stand the responsibility," she denies. Maka hands fall to her hips. "No, I'm just your overly kind, thoughtful, and considerate best friend."

"I thought Black*Star was my best friend."

"He thinks he's my best friend too," Maka replies. "And he can keep thinking that for all I care. His ignorance is my bliss."

"When he finds out the truth, he's going to kill us."

"And you're going to throw me into the line of fire," Maka dolls back, like they've said it a million times before. And they probably have since the start of June.

But, Soul likes hearing her say it; he likes knowing she considers him her best friend over everyone else. Maybe it would be painful, considering it's been months since he realized he likes Maka more than he should, but he can't find it in him to care. He's special to Maka, who cares how much so? He's terribly pleased with the small victories: like, Maka hanging out in his apartment for movie night, for example.

"I've made my pick," Maka's voice sings from the living room. He doesn't know why she's rubbing it in. Nine times out of ten, it's always her pick. The deal they made from the beginning means nothing at this point. While they still take turns on whose choice it is for food, Maka usually gets final call on movies. She actually has pretty good taste in movies; must be that, because she's such a bookworm, Maka knows a good plot when she sees it.

Either way, Soul would never complain. He learns he lessons after the second Maka-Chop, thank you.

He comes back to the living room to find Maka laying across the couch and snuggling with his only afghan. He slips back into his own recliner, shooting the blue and grey burrito a dirty look. He makes a show of being cold and uncomfortable by curling and shifting in his seat, but Maka pays no heed. Instead, she starts up the movie with his game station controller.

Soul gives up on whatever it is he was trying to do. "You're going to spend the night then?"

Maka pulls her arm back into the warmth of her cocoon and hums. "Maybe; I haven't decided."

He's not convinced. "You always fall asleep when you roll yourself up like that."

"I won't," Maka insists, her vibrant emerald eyes now trained on Soul. "This is a good one."

"Maka." Soul makes a big show of rolling his eyes. "You always fall asleep on my couch. It's happened so much I stopped feeling guilty for not giving you the bed." Which is kind of true but also not. It's happened four times the last two months, really. However, he likes how flustered she gets when she wakes up and realizes she didn't make it past the exposition of the movie. The first time it happened, she got so red he thought she would burn a hole through his couch.

The burrito on his couch squirms and wiggles. Maka hums and scoffs back at him, choosing to focus on the movie. Soul can feel a smile on his lips. He turns his head to watch the opening scenes, but his eyes stray back to Maka several times throughout the movie.

About halfway through the movie, his eyes catch something different from Maka. It's just on the edge of his eye sight, he sees the colors red and black. His body tenses, head freezing to still face the front. He wants to look, to see if it really is what his eyes think it is, but he can't move.

Just out of the corner of his eye, Soul can see a creature staring at him by his record player.

Terror grips him. Then something else grips his hand.

Soul manages to tear his focus away from whatever is behind him to look at his right hand. Covering it is a warm, flesh-colored hand. It's small and dainty, despite the fact it's beaten him more times than Soul can remember. It covers his own, and instead of nails digging into his flesh, the appendage grips his own tight and comfortable. It's secure.

Soul's eyes follow the hand up its attached arm and spots the top of Maka's fluffy hair. She's still staring at the television, though. It's a little awkward how her arm sticks out over the arm rest, but her body is still laying down. It can't be comfortable. Her eyes don't stray from the screen, but her hand squeezes his own. She doesn't let go afterwards, so Soul gulps in the air he didn't know he had forgotten to breath. He squeezes her hand back, and she still doesn't let go. Instead she squeezes back one more time— a little longer than before— and keeps watching with him hand in hand.

Soul focuses on that warmth. He takes a deep breath, and doesn't dare look back.

* * *

{O.o}

Says will post mid to late July.*

Posts the very last day of July.*

Nailing it.

I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of part two. It's twice as long as any previous chapters, so please accept this as my appology for the delay (and for only posting one chapter when I said I would post two).

Let's continue this journey together! Please look forward to more.

Thank you for reading,

SunnyD545


	2. Her: 1

**Her 1:**

She jots down the bullet points as fast as she can before the professor changes slides. It's amazing how much shorter her shorthand has become since the start of the semester this fall. Maka had been a stickler for basic grammar rules in near all cases of writing. Even her text messages feature complete sentences and punctuation. Almost all of her professors have destroyed that ideal, however. At least, when it comes to her class notes, anyway.

Her notes used to be so neat and precise, with each letter thoughtfully written with intent to express what she had learned. Now, though, most of her handwriting is just bumps and lines, with random dots thrown in. She tries not to over think what that might mean. It's not important, really. It doesn't mean anything.

She's been trying hard to not over think a lot of things lately. No good comes from thinking too hard. She should just focus on the now.

She should think positive thoughts. Stay focused on what she can control. For example, sloppy notes just mean a built-in study time. She spends her evenings translating in-class notes back in her dorm room into something more useful and organized. Having to write the notes twice will help her study. It's a blessing—no a gift, maybe, in disguise?

Don't over think this. Don't over think. Stay focused.

If she doesn't, Maka will miss the last few minutes of lecture—which always has important information, but is never on the slides. The professor rapid fires some key notes about cell production during high stress moments in human organs. His words are drowning in a tone both tired and dull, face covered in scratchy, white hair and indifference. He's still talking while closing down the presentation and putting away his laptop. Maka writes half letters to half words as fast as she can. The professor is saying his goodbyes as she tries to remember what it was he said about heat being introduced to the cells. Good? Bad? Never? Always? Does it even matter?

A sigh escapes Maka's lips as the rest of the class files out of the lecture hall. She resigns herself to just looking the details up online. She doubts it's in the text book. Even if it was, she wouldn't know what page. Five weeks into the semester and the professor has yet to reference a single sentence in the thing.

The next class she has pops to the front of Maka's mind and she resists groaning aloud. It's a lab day. Motivation to pack up and leave dwindles. She contemplates how much time she has until that next class and how much of it she actually needs to get to the lab. There isn't much room for stalling, she admits. At least she doesn't have to speed walk from one side of Death University to the other. Not today.

She is fives steps out of the building when another being crashes into Maka's left side. Violently. The person that hits her feels like a wall, and clings to her like gum—unwanted and impossible to pull off. She had grown use to people bumping into her in high school. People would walk like they owned the hallways. However, it hadn't really been an issue on the campus. Everyone avoided everyone else, content to limit social interactions. Which means that this person, bumping and clinging to her form, is doing it on purpose.

"For a guy whose childhood dream was to be a ninja, you have no grace." Maka does her best to shove the heavy muscle off her frame, but Black*Star doesn't budge. In fact, he puts even more of his weight onto her side.

"First," he retorts after adjusting his arm around Maka's shoulder, "it's an assassin. Second, I'm still working towards that dream, so don't sell me out yet."

Maka rolls her eyes. She also tries rolling her shoulders, but the older male resists detachment. Maka resigns herself to this fact and starts walking to lab. Black*Star stays right to her side, leaning just enough to make the journey obnoxious and more difficult. "Potato, tomato."

His nose scrunches. "What? Since when did we start talking about food? No, man, I'm talking about assassins, and how they are a thousand times cooler than ninjas. Everyone knows that." Black*Star pauses, forcing Maka to stop walking too. "Wow, Maka." He shoots her a bewildered look, which she returns with the most apathetic face she can muster. "You're all mixed up here. And I thought college was supposed to make you smarter."

Maka doesn't even try to deny the nonsense falling from his lips. Instead, she starts moving forward, stupid blue weight or not. At least Black*Star doesn't hold her back. He doesn't let go either.

Keep moving forward. Don't over think unimportant things.

"Did you need something, Black*Star?"

She feels his shrug on her shoulders. "Just thought I would say hi to my favorite little bookworm."

Maka hums back, eyes focused on the path.

"Also, wanted to know if you were up for lunch."

"Can't," Maka replies, eyes dipping towards Black*Star for a moment. "I've still got class until two." She focusses back in on the path to lab.

Black*Star's hand left hand squeezes her right shoulder. "Seriously? Don't tell me you have to wait until then. When do you find time to eat? Can you eat in class?" There is an edge to his voice, straining the pitch just a bit above normal range.

Maka shakes her head. "No food or drink in the lab room," she recites like a broken record.

The other freezes, but unlike last time, Maka is able to escape his hold. She turns a bit to watch Black*Star's face morph. His blue eyes widen and his mouth drops from a frown to hang open. It is a transition from confusion to understanding and what can only be terror.

"Lab," he echoes, the bravado gone from his voice. "Oh, uh. I forgot that you have labs Thursday." He stops to look past Maka. His eyes stray around the area behind her a bit before drawing back to her face. She knows the look she's wearing is both unimpressed and amused.

"Yeah," she agrees, and there is a twinge of something in her chest as she watches the emotions on Black*Star's face. It's rare for that emotion to be displayed, and the fact Maka had a part makes her a little proud. "Lab. I've got two hours of it with Stein." As if who the professor was isn't obvious enough after the two months of summer school with him. Maka feels even more satisfaction at how the name makes Black*Star shuffle away a bit.

"Oh, well, you better get to class then, huh? Sorry I forgot; I'm still trying to remember my own schedule." Black*Star, the man who dreams of being a master assassin, scoots further back from her. "I'll catch you later. Maybe dinner? Or, or lunch tomorrow."

Maka raises an eyebrow. It's not that they don't hang out more since being on campus together, but neither her nor Black*Star had ever gone out of their way to schedule make-up meet-ups. Did he want something? Was there something wrong? Was he in trouble again, and needed bailing out? Homework assistance? Why would he actively seek her out?

Don't over think. Don't assume. Don't over think.

"Yeah," Maka replies. She blinks a few times because her vision has blurred a bit out of focus. "Okay. Tonight's movie night at Soul's place. Did you want to come too? Maybe Tsubaki would want to hang out, if she's available."

Black*Star's face flickers a moment. It starts confused, with drawn brows, then smooths to something wide and open and vulnerable. But, this lasts less than a few seconds before he hunches in and a small frown appears on his face. "Yeah well, no. I mean, there's no point if you've already got plans. We can shoot for tomorrow."

Maka risks a glance to her phone, realizing she hasn't got the time to play detective with Black*Star's emotions. She doesn't want to be neglectful. She hates the idea, if she is being honest, because Black*Star may be an open book, but he rarely lets other's take a peek inside.

Whatever this is to him, it is important. But it also will have to wait.

"Black*Star," Maka starts. His eyes stop staring at her boots and move to her face. They don't make eye contact though, but she'll take what she can get. "I've got class. We can do lunch tomorrow; I've got a window around eleven thirty. But," she hesitates on how to phrase this. "Maybe you should text me later too?" Why did she say that like a question? Oh my Death. Maka wants to slap her own face but instead she just keeps on talking. "Even if I'm in class or watching movies, you can always text me. My phone will be on silent." This is beyond awkward. She prays Black*Star understands because she isn't sure what else to say without being even more obvious.

Black*Star stares back at her. Then, he blinks. "Oh, uh," he tapers off to tilt his head like a confused puppy. Maka wants to smack both their faces. "Sure...?"

Why is he asking her a question? Maka wonders if smacking either of them would help at this point.

Instead of violence, Maka groans. "Right okay, fine. I'm trying to help here Black*Star but seriously, I don't have time for this. Just, just," She sighs. "Text me later. About whatever is going on."

"Going on?" Black*Star parrots back. His body has straightened to his full height, which really isn't that tall, but he is taller than Maka. His eyes are big and wide open. He looks at her, but then looks at a tree to her left. "Nothing is going on."

"Do not make me Maka Chop you. I am so close to just ditching class and beating your ass."

Black*Star snorts. "Lame rhyme, Bookworm. Besides, we both know you won't ditch." His eyes widen when Maka raises one of her hands. She reaches behind herself for her backpack, and that seems to be enough. Black*Star raises his own two hands and tenses. "But, okay, fine, okay," he stammers, inching back just a bit. "I'll text you."

"Today," Maka demands.

"Later," Black*Star concedes.

She nods once and twirls around. "Later." And she doesn't bother to say if it is an agreement or departing statement. It doesn't really matter. She feels awkward, but there is nothing else she can do about it right now. The situation is awkward. Black*Star is awkward.

Maka races down the sidewalk to her lab building. She makes it with just a couple of minutes left before class. Everyone else is hovering out in the hall, just in front of the door. They all are murmuring to each other, but no one seems keen on going into the lab room. Stein must be inside already. Maka goes into the lab room herself. No one tries to stop her. Instead, everyone takes a step back, as if she is contaminated by Stein's crazy.

Maka likes to think she's not, but maybe she is, has been for years, and can't tell anymore.

The lab room is clean and well lit. It's always near spotless. The smell of formaldehyde lingers, along with a chemical smell that may or may not be from cleaning supplies. There are tall tables and stools in the center of the room, all empty of course. At the very front is the professor's work table and a large examination table with additional lighting attached. Outlining the room are piles of lab supplies in organized chaos. At one corner of the room are a pair of dome-covered containment tables, which is where Stein stands.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Maka announces. At first, it had been a thing of respect, but at this point, saying the phrase feels more like an inside joke.

"Maka," Stein replies. "You're late." He's hunched over one of the containment tables. From where she is, Maka can see his hands pushed through the attached gloves and messing with something inside the plastic dome. Death knows what he's messing with though.

She stops by her seat to drop off her backpack. It's the seat closest to Stein's examination table. No one else will dare to sit at first few tables after their first experiment. Maka doesn't like sitting so close either—for different reasons, but she thinks it makes Stein happy. It's hard to tell for sure, but not all of his grins are maniacal.

"It was Black*Star," Maka defends herself by throwing her childhood friend under the bus. It's not like he hasn't done the same. "Besides, I'm not really late; there's still a few minutes until noon."

Stein hums and pulls away from whatever had his attention in the container. "Then you should not say 'good afternoon.' It should be 'good morning.'" He seems to be looking at her, but the glint across his glasses hide Stein's eyes.

Maka shrugs, but she can feel the small smile on her face. "Tomato, potato."

Stein nods. "Toe-may-toe, Toe-mah-toe."

Maka ignores the lame joke, because it really isn't a joke. Stein doesn't know how to tell jokes, and he never will. Instead, she wanders closer to where Stein is working. "He was acting weird today," she continues on.

"Who? Black*Star?" Stein has turned back to his previous fiddling. "Is that supposed to be out of the norm?"

Maka stops short of actually being able to see what was inside the containment table. "For him, it was weird, I mean. He was acting…" she trails off because she doesn't know how to describe it. Instead of words, Maka finds her hands raising and falling in an undecided pattern.

She wonders if she's jumping to conclusions again. She might just be overthinking Black*Star's behavior. He hadn't outright said that something was wrong. She should not just assume that something was wrong just because Black*Star wanted to chat. She's not just overthinking, Maka is being presumptuous of the situation. There is probably nothing wrong.

Stein isn't looking at her, but he hums in the lull of Maka's explanation. "He was acting in a way that, to others would be unnoticeable, but to you was far too obvious of his distress." He fiddles again with whatever he is doing. "As his childhood friend, you would know Black*Star's mannerisms best." The comment brings a sense of pride rushing through her that Maka is not expecting to happen. She's rarely proud to be Black*Star's friend, but even more rarely is she ashamed by it.

Stein's confirmation brings a surge of confidence. "Yes, exactly," Maka agrees, though there isn't really a reason to agree with Stein's statement. "He was acting different than usual. He seemed on edge, maybe nervous? I'm not too sure. I didn't have a lot of time to talk to him before lab."

She stops to see if her godfather had any advice or comment. Stein just keeps fiddling, head turned down to the plastic container.

"Stein," Maka starts, but stops. Warring in her stomach is confidence and fear. They seem to wave back and forth, like two opposing forces that cannot give into the other. Is she right to meddle? Is there anything to meddle about? Being Black*Star's friend doesn't mean she has the right to tell others of his troubles, even if it is just Stein. There is no point in making mountains out of mole hills, or however that phrase went. There may not even be a problem with Black*Star, and she's just is assuming that something is wrong when she knows nothing about what Black*Star is thinking.

A weight comes down on Maka's head. Her hair, trapped in her usual comforting pigtails, shifts just a bit, but not too much to loosen strands. The weight stays, and Maka blinks to see an arm reaching out to her from Stein. She stares at his glasses, and the man tilts his head enough to change the glint from his lenses. Now she can see him clearly, grey eyes matching with her own.

"Breathe," Stein advices. She does. "Good girl." Stein pushes down on her head a little, then releases the pressure and pulls his hand away. "Now, what's wrong?"

Maka pauses. She can't quite look at her godfather. But, she wants to be honest. "I don't know what is wrong with Black*Star; they're may be nothing wrong at all." She stops, but Stein is just staring at her. "What? That—that's it."

Stein sighs. "No; I mean what's wrong for you?" She doesn't know what face she's making but Stein clearly doesn't like it. "You're hesitating. You don't usually hesitate on things. Especially when it comes to dealing with Black*Star. You usually make a quick and decisive decision. You're—"

"Overthinking," Maka sighs.

Stein steps away from his observations. His body is now turned to face Maka. "Sounds like you know of a problem."

Maka glances around the room. "I've been talking to Doctor Gorgon. It's only been two sessions, but… She thinks my issue is with control and that I overthink simple situations too much. I've been trying to, I don't know, fix it?" She shrugs, the weight of her shoulders making the task difficult to complete. Maka's feeling a little defeated, and she knows there are several reasons why.

Stein opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sounds of metal latches and sneakers scuffing tile. Both Maka and he glance to the source to see the rest of her classmates filing into the lab room. The horde moves into the area slowly, all avoiding the front of the room and the corner Maka and her guardian are standing in. A low murmur fills the space as students settle into the back tables.

Maka glances back to Stein. "Looks like class is starting."

Stein tilts his head up and to the back of the room. Maka tries to follow his hidden gaze. She thinks he might be looking at the clock, high up on the wall. The time shows it to be 12:07 in the afternoon.

"Everyone's almost ten minutes late," Stein notes. He then sighs. "As usual." He sounds almost upset. Maka can't help her grin as Stein frowns. "Alright, we better not waste any more class time. But, Maka, I would like to talk more about this, after class?"

The grin falls flat on Maka's face. "Sure, I guess." She can't fight the feeling of dread filling up inside her though.

"Good," Stein replies. His voice is steady and sure. There's no room for arguing. "Now then." Stein walks to the front of the room and claps his hands to gain attention. It works, but Maka thinks half the class is looking at their professor with terror in their eyes. "Good afternoon, class. Let's get started with today's lab. I have a lovely rare bird that I think—"

"Professor," Maka interrupts. "This is chemistry. We are supposed to work with chemicals and elements. Not rare birds that I don't even know how you got ahold of." At this point she's wandered back over to her seat. "And I don't even want to know either." She sits with one eyebrow raised in defiance to her professor. Had it been anyone but Stein, she would not have dared.

A toothy grin covers the bottom half of the professor's face. It's wide and shows off almost all teeth in Stein's mouth, straight like tombs in a cemetery. While she's not looking at any of her classmates, Maka can feel the entire room of undergraduates give a collective shiver. "Oh Maka," Stein says back, voice full of mirth that should not be there. "Chemistry is everywhere, including on the insides of rare birds. Here," he pauses to adjust his glasses. The light reflection makes Stein's eyes impossible to see from behind the lenses. "Let me show you."

Maka sighs. Another stressful day of lab has begun.


	3. Him: 2

**Him 2:**

Soul hold in the sigh until he out in the Nevada heat. He takes another glance at the crumpled instruction pasted to the white bag in his hands before stuffing it and its contents into his open jacket. The bag is puffed out thanks to the pill bottle inside, so one side of his jacket extends out just a little too far. It makes a crackling, crumbling noise as he walks away from Medusa's building.

It's too hot for a jacket, really, but it's this or a harsh and damning sunburn. In the end, Soul would rather sweat like a pig than be as red as a lobster. Not cool. At least the sweat can be washed off at the end the day. No amount of sunscreen he applied over and over again, only to ultimately forget about, would make up for a full body roast.

As Soul reaches his motorcycle, his back left pants pocket vibrates. Soup pulls out his cell to see that it is a text from Maka: **_BlackStar is coming over for movie night._**

 _Why?_ Soul can't help but wonder.

 ** _K_** , he types instead. Maka will probably tell him why later when she shows up at his apartment. No point in making her type it all out like the scholar she is. From what he can tell, no matter how long the message, Maka will insist on proper grammar. On time, she sent him tree paragraphs of information, perfectly typed, on why she needed Styrofoam, green paint, and crafting sticks.

It was for a project; Soul had managed to summarize. He also picked up on her extreme dislike for group projects. At this point in his life, he has learned that the question "why?" just opens jars of worms. That one-word question can waste his time and Maka's fingers.

His phone vibrates again: **_I'll get pizza for us._**

 ** _Meat lvrs :)_** he replies.

 ** _I know._**

Soul grins. **_Meat!1!_**

 ** _I know, Soul_**

 ** _MEAT_** Pause. **_LOVERS_** He adds in a second message box.

 ** _I'm going to get you a Veggie Lovers, extra-large._**

 ** _:(_**

Soul waits a few extra seconds. Maka doesn't reply. Soul is still grinning though as he shoves his phone into the one empty pocket of his jacket. He jumps onto his motorcycle and rides home helmetless. He never wears it. When Maka spots that and ultimately brings it up, he just lies and tells her he forgot it at home. She never likes the answer, but it's better than telling her that it's her helmet he bought just for her to use. Soul worries that piece of information will come off as too desperate and obvious.

The ride back is uneventful. Soul spends it trying to think about nothing instead of hard things, like: Medusa, the Little Ogre, and how Maka knows about neither. All three of those subjects are so hard to breech, all for different reasons. Yet, all three bring a sense of dread and nausea that he would prefer not to feel while riding a vibrating machine across Death City.

Needless to say, he has a hard time not thinking about anything.

He unlocks the door to his apartment and wanders in, leaving the lock undone. The first thing Soul does is go to his room and stash away his latest medicine. He keeps it in the back of the drawer in his nightstand, paranoid someone will see it. Not that the chances are high; Maka is the one who comes over the most and she hasn't been in his room since that first impromptu sleep over. The second most common visitor is Black*Star, and he tends to stay in the living room with the game station. But still, Soul thinks, better safe than have to explain himself.

After that paranoid fantasy is laid to rest, Soul removes his jacket and throws it over the back of his desk chair. He then does a quick stink check. He's not too bad in that department, Soul decides after a few sniffs. The motorcycle ride was very breezy and cooling today.

He wanders back to the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. Leaning against the counter, he pops the tab and takes a long drink: two gulps worth. It kind of stings the back of his throat, and his eyes squint as he fights back tears from the carbonation, but Soul likes the sensation. It's a very intense burn that never quite fades from his throat or nose. He sips small drops of the drink after the initial sting.

A few minutes later, the door to his apartment opens and Black*Star comes through. Soul can see him from his spot against the counter, and Black*Star gives a little half wave when they make eye contact. His hand lingers in the air for a moment afterwards, then drops like it's dead to Black*Stars stiff side.

Soul raises a brow at the awkward gesture. "Hey man."

"Yo Soul," Black*Star replies, but there is no usual force behind his voice. The grin on his face seems to tremble just a bit at the corners. "I came to crash you and Maka's Date Night."

Soul snorts and rolls his eyes. "Not a Date Night," he drones. He gestures towards the living room with his soda can and both of them are soon collapsing on his worn couch.

"You wish it was," Black*Star counters. Soul chooses to take a sip from his soda. Black*Star grins maniacally beside him. "You poor man," his friend continues with a cackle, and there is a renewed spark in his eyes. "She's a violent little nerd, and she's going to break you like chalk on the sidewalk."

Soul huffs. "Weird metaphor."

"Masochist."

Soul shrugs. "She only hits hard sometimes."

By now, Black*Star is full of cackling beside Soul. The other watches as his laughing friend clutches at his stomach with one hand while the other clings to the back of the couch. Soul leans a bit away as Black*Star's weight becomes too off-center, and the bluenette careens to the opposing side of the couch. He ends up half collapsed on the couch; his is face half buried in the arm rest.

Soul waits until his friend's breathing levels out. He then nudges the other with his knee. "Not that I don't enjoy being your punching bag, but what's going on?"

Black*Star's body stiffens for just a moment, then he seems to melt further into the cushions. He also buries his face right into the firm armrest. "Wha'dya mean?" He mumbles into the fabric.

Soul raises a brow, despite the fact it is unseen by the other. "You're the one crashing tonight. I mean, Maka told me you were coming, but she didn't say why."

"That's cause she doesn't know."

"Oh," Soul says because he doesn't know what else to say.

There is a long moment of silence between them. Black*Star takes his time to sit back upright on the couch. Soul takes a few small sips from the half-empty can in his hand. The two face forward in their shared seat, eyes trained on the wall and dark television. They lounge back, forms both sinking into the old worn couch.

"You wanna tell me what's up?" Soul tries again. Both of his hands are now between his knees as the can dangles from his fingertips.

"Where's Maka at?" Black*Star asks.

"Getting pizza," Soul replies. He turns his head to the right. His tired eyes trail around Black*Star's face. "You know, she's going to wear the information outa you, right?"

Black*Star sighs as his head falls back. "I know."

Soul nods, his head falling back too to stare are the ceiling. "But that's why you involved her," Soul continues. His eyes fall to slits, just barely resisting closing all the way. "She's the stubborn type, and you need her to break through your own wall of stubbornness and help you." He pauses for a moment, listening to the other breath next to him. "She's a good friend like that."

Black*Star takes his time to reply. "She's a good friend," he agrees. Another long pause fills the air, as Black*Star sucks in a deep breath and lets it back out. "My best friend," he admits.

"Besides me, you mean."

The other snorts. "Now, now, there's more than enough of the mighty Black*Star to go around." His voice doesn't match the usual gusto of that statement though. Instead of ending with an expected, hearty, obnoxious laugh, the blue-haired male just sighs. "It's Tsubaki."

Soul's eyes open wider and he turns his head just enough to look at his friend. "What's up with Tsubaki? I thought things were going great between you two."

"It is," Black*Star insists, and for a moment there is a spark of energy back in him. But then, the other seems to cave back into a mellower emotion. "Or it was? I don't know. We were doing great, but then her brother showed up outa nowhere and things have gotten…" Soul can see Black*Star clench his teeth. "Tense."

"Brother," Soul echoes back. Images of his own older brother filter through his mind. Soul closes his eyes and resists the desire to squirm up into a ball next to his friend. "He's older, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah," Black*Star confirms. "By a lot, I think. I'm not sure. But, he's a real jerk to Tsubaki. Like, he complains about everything to her like she's supposed to fix it. He makes these little side comments about what she says or does, and I just-" Soul watches as Black*Star breaks off to reach up his hands and grip at the air between him and the ceiling. "I can see each statement, and it's like a physical hit to Tsubaki. He's hurting her and she won't say anything back."

Soul pulls himself back up and moves to get a better look at his frustrated friend. "Let me guess: she asked you not to do anything?"

A growl and some kicking is Black*Star's response.

"Maybe you should," Soul suggests with a shrug. "I mean, you could just say something to him, right? Be casual." Although, Soul thinks, casual isn't really Black*Star's forte.

"I have," Black*Star insists. "I've tried cutting him off mid-insult when we're hanging out, but he just turns anything I say and do around and shoves it back in Tsubaki's face. He's more than hinted at how bad our relationship is to her. And that's when I'm in the same room. I hate to think of the shit he says to her when no one else is around."

"And Tsubaki?"

"She just seems to get more and more tired every time I see her. It's like he's draining her down or something. I mean—" Black*Star suddenly sits up straight. His left leg curls up under him on the couch and he twist his whole body around to stare at Soul. "I don't know what to do. She doesn't want me to interfere, but I can't just do nothing. She doesn't deserve any of that shit he's throwing at her. I just…" He sighs, head and hands dropping. "I just want her to stop feeling like anything that ass says is true."

"Of course it's not true," a new voice answers. Both Soul and Black*Star jump, and the latter actually falls of the couch. Soul turns his head around to see Maka standing just at the entry from the door to the living room. Her hands are on her hips and a scowl is on her face.

"Maka," Soul says in ways of greeting, but she ignores him to instead stomp her way over to Soul's couch and glare at Black*Star's prone form on the floor.

"It's not true," Maka repeats with that famous stubbornness. "You may be an idiot and an obnoxious friend, but you are a good boyfriend Black*Star." She leans over the back of the couch, as if proximity will help emphasize her words. "And Tsubaki knows that. Nothing anyone says is going to change her mind. She already decided to date you all on her own."

"How long have you been here?" Soul asks, but again Maka ignores him as she leans back to full standing and stomps her way to the other side of the couch.

Black*Star scrambles to his knees, choosing to stay on the floor as Maka stops with less than a foot between them. The two seem to be having a glaring match. "You don't have to tell me all that. I know how awesome I am. But I'm tired of listening to that asshole talk shit to Tsubaki."

"But that's Tsubaki's problem to deal with, not yours," Maka replies. "What Tsubaki needs is for you to just stay by her side. This is her brother, and she's going to have to deal with him her own way. What she needs from you is a strong moral support."

"So I just sit there and do nothing?" Black*Star's whole face is squished into a scowl.

Maka just sighs and shakes her head. "You being there is not nothing."

Black*Star falls silent. Maka takes the chance to flop down on the couch, the motion lurching her to the left and she ends up leaning into Soul's side. She pushes him and the couch until she's more settled and less collapsed. Soul can't help but notice how she's still close enough to bump elbows. So he does.

"We're you spying on us?" Soul asks. He can't even find the nerve to act insulted or betrayed.

Maka elbows him back a little harder. "It's not my fault you two weren't paying attention. I was hardly sneaking when I brought in that giant pizza box."

Soul perks up at the mention of food. "Oh yeah." He grins at her. "Meat Lovers?"

Maka rolls her eyes and this time her entire forearm rubs against him. "Would you believe me if I said they were out of Veggie Lovers?"

Soul enjoys the short tingle of warmth that runs up his arm. He presses back into her side, this time leaning his weight into her. The warmth spreads from his arm into his right side and skitters up to his pounding heart. He snickers as Maka sputters and starts to shove him off weakly. He resists her attempts for a moment, grinning like the idiot he is and absorbing as much of Maka as he can, then retreats from her side to stand up from the couch.

"That's a real shame," Soul drawls, but the grin is stuck on his face. "I guess we'll just have to live with no veggies on our pizza."

"Yes, such a shame," Maka replies. He doesn't have to look at her to know there is a grin on her face too.

As he heads to the kitchen, Soul stops to glance down at his still quiet friend. He contemplates Black*Star's tense expression and unfocused eyes. Then, Soul gives a light kick to the bluenette's side. "You staying on floor all night or what?"

Black*Star jolts as if Soul's foot was electric. He blinks wildly, head moving around as if he forgot he was sitting on the floor of Soul's apartment. Then, the male stands with a hearty laugh. "I know you two would enjoy my company for the evening—really who wouldn't? But," he continues while moving to the hall, "I forgot that Tsubaki was making dinner tonight, and it would be a crime not to enjoy my girlfriend's cooking. You two will just have to survive without me."

"The tragedy," Maka replies, her voice flat from how heavy her sarcasm.

Black*Star winks. "I know. But don't worry, I'll always be here in spirit. Your god is never too far away." With a final cackle, Black*Star ducks out of sight. Seconds later, there is the sound of a door opening and closing.

Soul shares a look with Maka, and the both shrug in unison. There is a small smile on Maka's lips though, and Soul thinks she's looking rather smug, all things considered. He turns to finish his quest for pizza, a huff leaving his mouth. "Don't be so proud. We both know how easy it is to trick Black*Star," he states as he enters the kitchen.

"There was no trickery," Maka calls back. "Just mastered manipulation. Oh, and grab me a slice too, please."

Soul rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." He reaches for the pizza box sitting on the counter and flips the lid open. In seconds, the wry smile on his face falls. His eyes widen and his nose scrunches up on his face as the sweet smell of the pizza hits him in full force. Soul's body shakes as he turns his head to the kitchen entrance where he can just see the side of the couch. "Hawaiian," Soul half spits half yells.

"I said no veggies," Maka's voices seems to sing. He can feel her smugness in each syllable. "Not no pineapple."


End file.
